


Feral

by joufancyhuh



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, One-Shot, a mad max fic that's been done a hundred times before i'm pretty sure, the fic no one asked for but would not leave my brain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-23 19:56:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10726140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joufancyhuh/pseuds/joufancyhuh
Summary: Max comes back, like Furiosa knew he would, but when he does, he's not entirely human.





	Feral

**Author's Note:**

> _Four hundred and fifty-three days into his absence, she spotted a car adrift on the horizon._

They told her his name was Max.

She repeated it to herself in the dark of her new room, spacious quarters that used to belong to Immortan Joe. His name was heavy and foreign on her tongue, sand that blundered out of her lips to fall into the blankets around her. She would see him again; she had seen it when their eyes met in the crowd. When he came, his name needed to be poetry, a song to call him back to her.

Imperator Furiosa, now just Furiosa. She was the Savior of the Citadel, never mind the role Fool had played. He faded into the background of the stories in a way that she envied for herself. No matter how she attempted to change her appearance, her missing arm gave away her identity to the dwellers. She even went so far as to grow out her hair, a suggestion from The Dag. She kept her black-brown hair pulled back in bunches as soon as she was able, desperate to keep it out of her face in the dry heat.

She pictured him saying his name to her. Her mind often drifted to him cradling her head in the back of Immortan Joe’s duster, color fading as her good eye glassed over from the pain. Sensation around her dulled, and she whispered, “Home,” before losing consciousness. She wondered when he said it, his name. While she hated the stories about her, she asked each person to tell of her survival. She visualized the details they recounted, how he turned himself back into a blood bag, The Dag always interjecting that she helped if she happened to be nearby when the story was being told. Embellished detail was involved as he drew her head to him, his voice husky as he said, “Max. My name is Max.” The women all swooned at the end of their stories before turning to her and asking what she thought of him.

Her feelings were her own, and she shared them with no one. That didn’t stop her from taking her breakfast in the garden on top of the Citadel and gazing out at the Wasteland, not really but definitely searching for a speck of his existence on the horizon. She kept track of the days of his departure much like she kept track of her own from the Green Place. The Sisters, the Wives renamed, would ask the day marker and giggle when she replied. Four hundred and fifty-three days passed in this manner before he arrived and they stopped inquiring.

She received people from him before he showed his face. Dwellers would appear with stories, never a name but always a description that she knew to be him. He sent them their way, families and single wanderers like himself. She wished for him to come back, see what the Sisters had managed in the void left by Immortan Joe. Herself, she kept busy with patrols and guzz runs. She was never one for managing or coming up with plans. Look at how disastrous their escape would have been if not for the random factor of him.

Four hundred and fifty-three days into his absence, she spotted a car adrift on the horizon. It kicked up dust as it sped their way, causing her heart to thump in her ears. She pulled out a pair of salvaged eyeglasses from the pack she carried her food in and peered out. The driver was a blur, but she knew it could only be him. Alarms sounded below and she scrambled to her feet, throwing everything back into the bag before heading down.

“Intruder,” one of the War Boys, she thought his name might be Tug, shouted down to her as she neared the garage.

“I’m going,” she responded, slinging the bag against one of the walls. She would grab it when she returned, or someone could take it to the tower that housed her quarters; it didn’t matter. She stared down the driver of one of their outfitted bugs until he slid over to the passenger seat. She didn’t recognize him, but he knew her. He didn’t speak as she jumped into the vehicle. Once the gates opened, she slammed her foot on the gas and sped forward.

The War Boy kept his eyes forward, toward the funnel of dust that barreled toward them. She gripped the steering wheel until the fingers of her right hand swelled pink, unsure of what she’d find of him. Her hair whipped around her face, and she used a hand to tighten her bunch while using her metal arm and both knees to keep the bug steady. Two more kept at her heels, ready to circle the speeding newcomer to trap him in.

The War Boy reached back to yank a shotgun forward into his lap. She watched from the corner of her eyes as his fingers fumbled shells into the barrel. She hoped she was right, and they wouldn’t need that. She focused her attention ahead as they neared. The other vehicles took enemy formation behind her.

The car, now black she saw, sped past them without slowing, and she donuted in the sand before heading to the side of the car. One of the other bugs swerved to the other side, while the third stayed on the tail. She looked past the strands of her thrashing hair to see the look of determination as Fool reached for what she knew to be a gun in the side door. “Max!” She called out across the wind. She didn’t worry about how it sounded, or the hiss that escaped between her clenched teeth. He jerked his head in her direction, eyes narrowed, before ramming the car into the bug. She grimaced before steering into his car door. “Max, stop!”

On the other side, the bug captained by a different War Boy plowed into his opposite side. They had him locked in. She saw him attempt to veer back and forth between them to let up, but they pressed tighter into him. The one next to her raised his gun before she could stop him, and Fool elbowed him in the face before grabbing the gun and turning it around on them. “Max, it’s me! Stop!”

She slammed on the brake to avoid the shot he let out in their direction, the bullet clipping the front of the bug. The other bug locked into the car wasn’t so lucky, and she saw it slow down as the driver leaked blood between his open eyes. The third rammed Fool’s bumper. She sped back up, grabbing a gun of her own from between the seats. Her mind raced over their options now that they were down a bug. There would be only one reason why he was going there, and it wasn’t to cause trouble. She nudged the Boy next to her. “Call the bug off.”

“He shot one of us!”

“Call them off!” He was unhappy, but he stood in the vehicle and waved his arms in the air. The bug in front of them slowed down, questioning looks tossed their way. “Follow, don’t engage,” She yelled, and they drove behind the black car while he headed toward the Citadel. She could see him glancing behind them, uneasy, but he didn’t try to shoot them again.

The gates were open when they arrived, signal received. When he stopped inside, War Boys surrounded the car, guns drawn. Fool didn’t leave the car. She parked the bug and leapt from her seat to the ground, boots echoing in the hushed room. Every painted eye was on her as she neared the window, gun at her hip. She wasn’t going to shoot him, but she did need to be careful. When she drew close enough that she could see in, his head was slumped against the steering wheel. Throwing away caution, she dashed forward and threw open his door.

His eyes were closed and his breathing shallow, his shirt stained red with dried and wet blood around his gut. She touched him to make sure he didn’t have any more defenses in place before carefully pulling him out of his seat. She snapped her fingers at one of the Boys, Tug. “Help me carry him to the sick room!” She lifted Fool under his arms, and the Boy was quick to jump to the other side and raise up his legs.

They made an awkward dash to the room, Cheedo already pulling needed supplies off the shelves. Furiosa pushed him up onto the table and Cheedo set to work by cutting off Max’s shirt with a knife. Tug was standing by, curiosity in his eyes as they watched her work. Cheedo pointed her fingers at him. “Oi! Stand and hold this rag here.” She turned toward Furiosa. “He’s lost a lot of blood. Go bring up one of the old blood bags and hook em in.”

She remained where she was. “Hook me in.”

“I don’t think-“

“It worked with me, so make it work with him.” She held out her arm. “Use me.”

Cheedo sighed. “Come over here then. I’ll plug you in after I plug the leak.”

She threaded a rig and shoved the Boy’s hand away from the rag. Fool shot up as she splashed alcohol onto his side for disinfecting. Furiosa and Tug pushed his shoulders back down onto the table. “You’re okay!” She tried to take a hand away to run it through his shaggy hair, something she had been told he did to calm her down, but it didn’t abate him. The look in his eyes was feral, unrecognizing. No matter what she said or did to him right then, he wouldn’t know her.

“Calm him down!” Cheedo yelled. Furiosa balled up the fist of her metal arm and knocked it into the side of his head. He slumped back, slackness setting into his limps. Cheedo moved forward, weaving the rig along his wound. Furiosa picked up a different rig, one she saw used on blood bags, and hooked the hose to it. She grimaced as she plunged the sharp end into the crease of her elbow. She stuck the other end into him, the way she had seen it done by others. Thick crimson liquid flowed from her end and into his. “Get her a chair,” Cheedo said to Tug. He nodded and grabbed one nearby.

Furiosa collapsed into it. The stuck arm she laid along his unmoving body, her fingers twisting soft in his hair. Her eyes studied his face. His hair and beard were longer. It matted together in unkempt strips decorated with sand from the Wasteland. His face was darker from the sun, showing old scars in pale streaks across his face. There were some new ones, too, along his cracked lips and heavy brow. She wondered what caused it, how he had fought and survived. She knew she would never ask him.

Fool slept for three days. Furiosa gave away her patrol shifts so that she could keep in her chair by his side, in case he woke up. She wasn’t sure if he still wouldn’t recognize her. Would his mind still be muttled?

Cheedo checked in on them. She said Max was recovering well (Furiosa couldn’t bring herself to use his name now that he was back) so he should be awake in a few days. Capable brought her food and sat for a few hours. They talked about him, how he looked, how long they thought he might stay. The Dag poked her head in, but she wasn’t interested in him unless he was awake, she said. Toast stopped by too, and hummed songs that made Furiosa at least make a show of a smile.

Furiosa slept in her bed. She couldn’t sleep well otherwise, but it wasn’t as though she slept well to begin with. She thought of Fool, of Max, waking up and her not being there, or worse, waking up and not recognizing her and just leaving. If he asked where she was, would that hurt as well?

Fool slept for three days. On the third day, an hour before he woke, Furiosa grabbed shears. Without looking in a glass, she snipped off her bunch and set to work cutting the rest of it until her head felt normal. She felt light, the weight of her hair gone once more. She stared at the floor around her, the long strands of herself laid out in a circle around her. Why did she ever let The Dag talk her into growing her hair out? This is who she was, short-haired. She showered the stray hairs off of her before heading to the sick room for the morning. Dwellers in the hall were taken aback to see her, and the Boys smiled and nodded their bald heads.

Fool opened his eyes after she arrived. His eyes were wild, much like the rest of him, but when he spotted her in her chair, they grew soft. His hand reached over and clasped hers and she smiled. Her tongue curled around the word, and she allowed her lips to open so she could breathe out, “Max.” And damn if it didn't sound like poetry.

**Author's Note:**

> This will more than likely be my only Mad Max fic, and not just because it was difficult to write due to the lingo of the apocalyptic world. I don't even know if it's any good. At this point, I'm tired of working on it and just want to post. But critiques and comments are very welcome!


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